He finds Igren

Arn returned to the busy street, stopped for a few moments to get his bearings and began walking east. He cursed himself quietly as he strode through the throng of people. Guilt still plagued him for cheating on Larissa. And why had he acted like such a bastard to the lass afterward? Why did he even care? She was just some tavern whore, wasn't she? Arn had been a lout for most of his life, and it had never bothered him before. But that had been the old him. Guess that changed when he met Larissa.

Still, his little escapade with Milla had given him a good lead on where to go next, and it felt good to be moving again. His hand moved to his sword and clutched the hilt tight. Soon, he thought and gritted his teeth. Soon he would finally make that bastard Igren pay for what he did. He walked with determination in his steps again.

He reached the summit of Oldtown Hill and descended the eastern slope. The further down the steep and narrow streets he went the more downtrodden both the houses and their inhabitants became. The western side of Oldtown had a certain rough charm to it, but these parts were mostly just poor and lackluster. As he reached the bottom of the hill, the paved streets gave way to dirt alleys in a twisty, maze-like warren where the ramshackle wooden houses leaned over and almost touched above.

He had reached The Muddle, Zatakia's notorious slums.

A concentrated blend of smoke and tanneries, of bad food, sour ale, sweat, and sex filled the air, and the poorest among Zatakia's townsfolk going about their daily business packed the streets. The noise pressed in from all directions. There was a steady clatter from craftsmen's tools, shouts from street vendors peddling food and wares of equally dubious origins and a constant jabber in many different foreign tongues and dialects. There was an increasing number of dwarves among the droves of people too, and even some lumbering and tattered half-orcs here and there. He was closing in on Dwarf Hollow, a particularly disreputable area of The Muddle where the majority of the city's non-human residents lived.

He spotted two young women standing on a street corner and furtively keeping a watchful eye on passers-by. One was a slender and long-legged brunette while the other was a short and very voluptuous redhead – both in matching red and revealing corsets. Whores, undoubtedly, but these two were pretty enough to work at least ten streets up the hill rather than on this destitute corner. A man could probably make quite the bargain there, provided that these girls kept local rates. But Arn had other business.

Even so, the girls turned out to be quite useful. Oh sure, they knew about Igren and his alehouse, and for another coin, they would give him directions on how to get there. For a few more they would give him the time of his life.

Arn politely turned down the offer and kept walking.

The tavern was right where the women had said it would be. It was just another crummy backstreet building with nothing suggesting that it was an actual inn – apart from a crudely painted sign above the door. It read ”The Gale of Njardfell.” That was Igren's pretentious old moniker from the war, even more, ridiculous as a name for a third-rate alehouse. This was undoubtedly the place.

But it was still broad daylight, and he couldn't just walk into a full busy and cause a big scene. He just had to bide his time and await the right opportunity. Just as well, there was no need to rush this, and some scouting had never hurt. He bought some passable bread and dried meat from a nearby marketplace and found himself a secluded spot with a good view of the tavern entrance in an opposite alleyway. He kept to the shadows and pulled his hood up, making his best impression of a drunken pauper. Then he waited.

He didn't mind that. Arn had been waiting for a good part of his life. A few more hours on his arse hardly mattered after years of ambushes, guard duty, and dreary sieges. He patiently kept an eye on the entrance and kept himself busy by counting the scruffy and weather-beaten patrons coming and leaving. There weren't very many of them. And as far as he could see, the place didn't have any guards.

Darkness fell, and the street resounded with drunken shouts from the alehouse. It was hard to tell whether they were happy or angry. The festive mood petered down eventually, and a remote town crier called out for midnight. A few stragglers stumbled out into the street, and after a while, someone snuffed out the flickering lights in the small windows.

Arn got up, crossed the street and walked towards the entrance.